In most adventure stories, the protagonist has a certain, nebulous something that sets him or her apart.
Maybe they’re inherently stronger or kinder or intensely strong-willed. Maybe they’ve been cursed or saved or bubble-wrapped for the first ten years of their life. Think Harry Potter or Katniss Everdeen or Bilbo Baggins. They’ve been marked. Chosen. And, somehow, this indefinable specialness grants them the keys to triumph.
The familiar saga of King Arthur usually begins like this: a young boy is “chosen” by magical forces to lead his country in an empathetic, savvy manner while his Knights of the Round Table become known for their bravery and benevolence.
Monty Python and the Holy Grail (1975) gleefully tramples upon this established storytelling trope by poking fun at the literary concept of the “Chosen One.” The film purposely flips the narrative to reveal the fallibility of these beloved characters, including King Arthur (Graham Chapman), Lancelot (John Cleese), and Galahad (Michael Palin). In dismantling the self-importance of popular myths, stories, and religious figures, the film illustrates that no story or character is too precious—or safe from human stupidity.
In the beginning of the film, King Arthur travels across Britain searching for knights to join his kingdom. When he comes upon two peasants, he is shocked to discover that one of them doesn’t know who he is or how he became king.
The peasant, undisturbed, counters, “How’d you get there, eh? Exploiting the workers. By hanging onto outdated imperialist dogma, which perpetuates the economic and social differences in our society.”
His deconstruction of the weaknesses of monarchical rule accentuates the absurdity of the situation: the heroic Arthur, dressed in heavy chainmail, expects fawning from his underlings; instead, he receives a severe rebuke shaped by Marxist ideology. The scene highlights the indulgence of Arthur’s aims: he seeks selfless knights, willing to lay down their lives for missions of honor. In contrast, the poor laborers who populate his kingdom, the peasants resting in the mud, are simply trying to survive. As the peasants argue over Britain’s political framework, Arthur huffs away, revealing the shallow extent of his ambitions. They are concerned with reality; he is concerned with a fairy tale.
Even when Arthur attempts to validate his charmed status as the “Chosen One,” the two peasants persistently undermine his heroic past. Arthur tries to prove his worthiness by explaining that the Lady of the Lake chose him to wield Excalibur and rule Britain. The laborers easily destroy Arthur’s bluster and self-importance with their blatant disinterest in his stories.
One peasant iconically responds, “Strange women living in ponds distributing swords is no basis for a system of government.”
His muddied companion shrugs and adds, “Some watery tart threw a sword at you.”
They’re not interested in stories of the “Chosen One.” These legends imbue the “hero” with a sense of pride and swagger, but pride and swagger will not pay land taxes or balance the highly distorted class hierarchy. These legends will not provide them with a social infrastructure for self-determination and a better quality of life. So, the peasants laugh and poke fun at their self-proclaimed king because he represents nothing but a delusion.
Soon after, Arthur’s first “fight” occurs not with another high-ranking knight, but with one of the unarmed laborers. When the rebellious farmhand openly contradicts the king’s visions of greatness, Arthur physically attacks him. Rather than attempt to empathize with the peasant’s life experience, the great British king grows irate at any condemnation that personally involves him or his kingdom. He’s a mighty, dignified ruler only when surrounded by passionate devotees. As the film reveals, Arthur’s sense of self is largely based on the reactions of those around him. When he faces criticism or petulance, his character degenerates. He is no longer “honorable.” This distinct flaw extends to another scene, where Arthur meets a brooding knight dressed in black who refuses to move out of the way.
Following the standard format of Arthurian legend, the fight between two knights should display bravery, vigor, and nobility. Instead, the scene represents a silly, impractical stand-off that results in a quick, painless maiming of the enemy.
When the knight in black chainmail loses an arm, he argues with Arthur about the extent of his injuries: “Tis but a scratch.” Although Arthur contradicts his assertions, the knight sulkily responds, “Liar…It’s just a flesh wound.”
Again, when a character treats Arthur with disrespect and refuses to agree with him, Arthur overcompensates. His enemy has already been incapacitated—he is missing an arm. But the mighty king continues to matter-of-factly swing his sword to “prove his point,” or to show the knight that he is injured. One arm, two arms, one leg, two legs. The film mocks the mythic honor of knights in battle by subverting the solemnity and urgency of combat, as well as establishing the distasteful reality of a sword fight. The black knight remains crippled, left in the dirt, while Arthur “gallops” away. In this moment, no one has truly won. The audience has not witnessed a fight of honor, but a fight of confusion and anger.
Arthur’s gallant knights receive similarly biting treatment. In another scene, a soppy milquetoast, Swamp Prince Herbert, hastily pens a letter and sends it flying through the sky with an arrow. When the brave Lancelot discovers the message, he assumes that the cry for help belongs to a trapped princess and rushes to the Swamp Castle. Almost immediately, Lancelot barrels into the kingdom with a raised sword and attacks the merry visitors of the castle.
This moment subverts the entrenched romance of a knight rescuing his princess: in reality, a hotheaded adventurer engages in a brutal bloodbath that leaves dozens of unarmed, innocent civilians dead. He’s not the hero. He is the villain. The camera pans over a group of bloodied inhabitants, the survivors wailing over their lost ones. When Lancelot realizes what he has done, he’s more upset that Herbert is not a princess rather than the amount of people he has viciously murdered. His careless demeanor stands in stark contrast to the mayhem that he has created. The moment is not one of selfless heroism, but of a hubris so outsized and unearned that the audience feels compelled to laugh.
The film also lightly ribs the holy glow of religion that saturates the great tales of King Arthur. When God orders Arthur and his men to find the holy grail, he interjects, tiredly, “It’s like those miserable psalms. They’re so depressing.”
The godly image that Arthur and his knights witness in the sky, haloed by golden light, is actually a photograph of the famous nineteenth-century English cricket player W.G. Grace.
There are no rules in this version of Arthurian adventure. Nothing is sacrosanct.
Later, cartoon monks gravely chant songs in a single line; like mindless lemmings, they follow each other off a cliff. While the animation could arguably be considered a critique of heedlessly obeying religious doctrine, the monks ostensibly represent an extension of Arthur and his men. Like the monks, they follow God’s orders without parsing its broader meaning. After all, what is the purpose of the holy grail? Why does it matter so much? There are no answers. The knights embark on a series of mishaps for an object they do not understand or, truly, seem to care about. In this film, God is a world-weary figure, commanding a group of fools to embark upon a wild goose chase for an impossible object.
When they arrive at a foreign castle in search of the holy grail, Arthur and his men meet a French soldier who treats them with mockery and disdain. The French knights giggle and blow raspberries at the Englishmen seeking their help. Rather than capitulate to the great King Arthur, the French soldiers are more concerned with passing the time through jokes and gags.
The mocking guard shouts at them, “Your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries.”
His nonsensical phrasing both upsets and confuses the knights, who expect the castle to automatically acquiesce to their needs. The film topples the convention of chivalry and pride by creating a scene that treats two groups of knights as silly schoolboys. Their weapons are not swords or arrows, but bizarre facial expressions and sarcasm. Arthur’s quest is consistently derided as inconsequential, foolish, and boring.
On this adventure, no one cares.
Moreover, the film introduces a teasing comparison between the quiet art of historical analysis and the brusque, violent reality of a medieval era in action. At one point, “A Famous Historian” stands in front of a stone wall; he perfectly epitomizes the stereotype of staid academic: unkempt white hair, stiff gray suit, and bowtie.
As he earnestly narrates the history of King Arthur, a knight gallops past him and runs a sword through his chest. Perhaps the Historian’s lecture is important, but it is not untouchable. As the film repeatedly illustrates, stories can be deconstructed, reshaped, and reframed. History cannot simply be relegated to bookshelves and dusty corners. The scene derives its success from the irony of the entire situation: the Historian is literally killed by a makeshift history. The film symbolically destroys the common historical vernacular surrounding Arthurian legend by exterminating its source.
In the end, Monty Python does not finish with an epic battle or a validation of the group’s heroic mission. After traipsing through foggy moors and craggy cliffs, Arthur and his men reappear at the one spot they loathe the most: the French castle. Although embittered and exhausted, the knights magically receive help from an army of thousands of men, only to be interrupted by police officers.
In a clash between the medieval era and modern day, the police arrest the knights for murdering the “Famous Historian.” In this way, the film not only pokes fun at Arthur and his men, but also at the entire production. Monty Python’s characters are arrested for daring to uproot the prevailing honorable narrative surrounding King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table. In this story, their adventures read as crimes. The film expands the broader meaning of its own message by cutting short the epic battle and penalizing its foolish Arthur and its foolish knights.
Monty Python refuses to provide an ending that will endorse the common dictates of a story geared toward the “Chosen One.” Monty Python refuses to provide an ending that plays into audience’s expectations. King Arthur and his men do not receive praise, but condemnation.
The biggest joke of the film: not only do they not find the holy grail, but they’re considered criminals.
Monty Python and the Holy Grail proves that there is never one “right” way to create an adventure or introduce familiar characters. The film openly mocks the mythic grandeur of Arthurian legend, shattering well-trod perceptions of the “Chosen One” and his adherents.
At the same time, its teasing humor springs from a good-natured love and awareness of adventure stories. The comedy troupe pokes a pin into the overly inflated idea that heroes must exhibit a sanitized, infallible nature. Sometimes, heroes are cocky, cowardly, strange. Sometimes, beloved heroes are not really heroes. Monty Python emphasizes the intriguing malleability of story and plot and how characters can expand or regress based on the path of the adventures they choose to take.
Sometimes, the “Chosen One” doesn’t find the holy grail—not because he didn’t try, but because he really didn’t deserve it.
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